


paint

by icemakestars



Category: The Morganville Vampires - Rachel Caine
Genre: self harm implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:17:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemakestars/pseuds/icemakestars
Summary: Eve wakes up in the morning and can't believe that this is her life.(set pre-canon)





	paint

**Author's Note:**

> For my university course I had to choose a fictional character from a novel and write a beginning of a story for them set before or after canon. We could not mention the character by name or reference the title of the novel, and clearly I chose Eve to do this. It also had to be between 300-500 words which is why it's so short. Enjoy!
> 
> Tumblr: @ice-bringer

Waking up in the morning was always the hardest part for her. Looking in the mirror, she had to see herself for how she truly was; a sullen teenager with more issues than meat on her bones. She’d lost weight again, something which should have been obvious from the shadow her cheekbones cast over her ashen cheeks, and the saggy way her silk skull pyjamas slid off her angles – angles where curves should be.

She sighed, looking at the array of make up at her fingertips. Picking up a brush, she was generous with her war paint, and soon there was a red lift to her lips, a purposeful smudge of black around her eyes. Her look was extreme, as everything about her was, and she hid behind the obnoxity of it, knowing that it screamed louder than she ever could.

Her wardrobe was filled with nothing but costumes, and she wondered which version of herself she would pretend to be today. All black, with streaks of autumn tones smoothed into the creases. The colours were muted, tired. She knew the feeling. Looking around, there was nothing which particularly caught her eye, but she did not feel like rummaging. What she wore yesterday will do fine. There were stockings on the floor, her favourite pair made from coarse netting and lace frills. She rolled them over her legs, settling into her amour with a familiarity which soothed her. For another day, she could be unapologetically someone else, someone whose every breath was a war won. With a tight leather skirt and a bralette that doubled as a pentagram, she knew that, once again, she was a spectacle and – just for one blissful second – she allowed herself to bask in the dry irony that the thing which made her an outsider was also the only thing that she could fully claim as her own.

It hurt, as most things in life do. A sharp, jagged pain which kissed deceitful promises along the curve of her spine, the roll of her neck. The expanse of her wrists. Every second of her life had been a struggle, and the futility of it was the constant throbbing she felt at the back of her head. She was falling apart. It had happened slowly at first, and then all at once. Like falling asleep. Or dying. At that moment, she wanted to do either one of those things.

Was it enough to just exist? As she slid her feet into the pumpkin spliced platforms sat under her desk, she realised that in a house made of glass, transparency was to be expected, and her flatmates had seen through her years ago. They were all ghosts, floating through life without being able to get a firsm hold of anything substantial, like money or safety. Or love. But they had each other, and sometimes that was almost enough. Not today, though, she thought, taking one last, hopeless look in the mirror before she opened her door and headed back out into battle.


End file.
